


Dreams of Destruction

by Khat



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bad Social Norms, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Bonding, Forced Pregnancy, Future Fic, M/M, Magical medical handwavery, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, Oviposition, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Tentacle Rape, Unethical Medicine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29057904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khat/pseuds/Khat
Summary: Once the first-born son of a powerful lord, until a conspiracy and governmental coup forced him to become an outlaw, Kieval Asley finds himself in serious trouble when he is captured.  Turned into a 'Breeder', physically and psychologically modified to carry the offspring of the alien 'Sires' as well as human children, he is claimed as a bonded sex slave by his lifelong rival, Mikhail Gahani, the man who took his titles, property, and the hand of the woman Kieval was forced to leave behind, a fate the proud rebel considers worse than death.Mikhail is determined to break his new slave and finally win the private war they have fought since they were children, but Kieval is not one to surrender easily, especially not to his worst enemy, even if 'victory' means a slow and painful demise from Bond sickness.Regardless of which man wins the battle, both their lives, and that of the woman they love, will end up irrevocably changed, especially when it is revealed that not all is as it seems with the Sires, the Breeders, and their spawn.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm doing it again, uploading another story instead of working on the ones I have up. Like the other ones, though, this was also already partly written.
> 
> For anybody who's squeamish about it, the only explicitly described alien/human relations will be in the first chapter, to set up the story. After that it will all be human/human, (although there will be some minor misuse of stinging insects later on.)
> 
> As for the name, no clue. Needed to put something, and it's catchy.

The dark corridor stank with the smell of unwashed bodies, misery and death, as a slender man was dragged unwillingly down it by two guards. His arms were chained in the newest reinforced cuffs, and similar chains bound his bare ankles, restricting his movements as he left blood-marred footprints on the rough stone floor. Nor were the cuts on his soles the only injuries he had. Someone had obviously worked him over well, bruises and small cuts marring his nude form, red trails still beading up along a few of the deeper ones, the injuries layered on top of older scars. A longer score sliced along his left cheek, missing his eye by a hair, and his right eye was nearly swollen shut. The blood and mud that turned his hair to a dank brown, and the scruffy beard that covered his chin, didn’t help his appearance at all, either. Still, his bearing was proud, and the grass-coloured eyes glared bright and furious.

“Red?” the Jail-Master asked in its odd, echoing voice, hands gesturing in the air as it studied diagrams and registries no-one else could see. Like all its kind, it was gifted with Other-Sight, an odd ability that allowed it to keep perfect track of the comings and goings at its station, and the Mind-Bond, shared with the others of its kind in the area, making the species perfect for keeping track of the many prisoners. Privately, most humans found the pale, too-thin creatures, with their four legs and always-moving eye-stalks, the ends smooth and faintly reflective instead of being proper eyes, disturbing. The Jail-Masters didn’t care, though, as long as they had something to keep track of, and their basic needs met.

“Blue. This one’s to be made a Breeder, if he survives.” The new voice was deep, sounding pleased with itself. The captive stiffened instantly, turning to scowl over his shoulder.

“My Lord,” one of the guards stammered in surprise, almost losing his hold as his prisoner tried to jerk free again. The Jail-Master just went back to its work, ignoring the incident until it was required.

“Mikhail Shan Gahani,” the prisoner spat out, glaring at the new arrival. The man looked entirely out of place, his dark clothing well-made and clean, the silver trimming the shoulders and cuffs of his jacket polished to a high sheen. His jet-black hair was neatly combed and recently washed, it seemed, the ends curling slightly against his shoulders, and the blue-grey eyes glanced around the place with obvious disdain. His nose was too sharp, but combined with the high brows and thin mouth, and his commanding air, it gave him an aristocratic appearance.

“Di Gahani,” he corrected. “Although I suppose you wouldn’t have heard that the House was reinstated, hiding out in the wasteland as you have been, Kieval _Shan_ Asley.”

“Reinstated by a false King,” the rebel shot back. “Jalin Dal Trient is a murderer and a traitor, and I shall fight him, and you, until the day I die.”

“Which might be rather soon.” The threat made the prisoner pause a moment in uncertainty, before he pulled himself up, managing the same arrogance the other man exuded despite his lesser appearance.

“And if I do survive? What half-witted lackey does the false King plan on giving me to? It can’t be anyone he’s overly fond of, since they’ll be dead inside a week after taking me.”

“I will be taking your Bond, Key, and I quite assure you, you’ll be too busy squirming on my cock, and whatever else I decide to shove into you, to have any thoughts of killing me.” The guards had to struggle to hold their prisoner back, though Gahani didn’t look at all concerned.

“Tarina isn’t enough for you anymore?” The words were pure venom. “I can’t think she’ll approve.” The Lord laughed softly.

“ _Tarina_ begged me to take your Bond. Lord Vaisar would have you given the green and put on display.” Key flinched at that. Not even the red, an honourable end in the death fights. Green meant a slow, painful, humiliating death, to fulfil the sadistic desires of the ruling class. Being whipped until you were bloody, and then staked out for hungry stal-cats to feed on, young ones so that they took smaller bites and ate you all the more slowly. Or tied to be used as a playtoy for the Lord’s huge hunting dogs. Key had seen one display, just the week before, where a bull of a man had been tied over a sawhorse, and sprayed with a scent that mimicked estrus, after which progressively larger animals were brought out to rape him, starting with one of said hunting dogs, up to one of the large warhorses, with penises as big as a large man’s arm, and just as long. Key had put a shot in the man’s head from his hiding place before it had had its chance, to put him out of his misery. And he had heard one complaint, as he had snuck away, that they hadn’t gotten up to the maraphant, which was far larger than any horse.

“I find myself liking the idea anyway,” Gahani continued. “Tarina is pregnant, and I wouldn’t want to hurt or upset her, in any case. You would be a bit harder to break, and it would be far more enjoyable to listen to your sobbing and begging, I’m sure.”

“I would rather die,” Key snapped, struggling again, more weakly this time as his injuries and exhaustion started to catch up with him.

“Try not to, Key.” The Lord reached out to grasp the other man’s left cheek in a mockery of a caress, stroking across the cut with a gloved thumb, setting it to bleeding sluggishly again. “Tarina carries my first child, but it would please me greatly to have you bear my second.” He gave him a pat and turned to the Jail-Master.

“Have him given to Sire 5. I know it lost its Breeder this morning, it will be all the more tender and caring with a new one so soon.” The Jail-Master paused, focusing one of the stalks on the dark-haired man.

“Sire 8 is next to be given a Breeder,” it stated emotionlessly.

“Sire 8 has killed its last four Breeders,” Gahani replied firmly. Key shuddered at that news. It wasn’t really surprising, though; the general mortality rate among first-time Breeders was over 50%. Having your organs moved around to make room for a new one had to be a painful and shocking process, not to mention supporting the offspring planted within.

The creature turned the eyestalk toward Key, almost as if studying him, and Key glared back at it, resisting the urge to shudder under the eyeless stare. Then the stalk turned back to whatever invisible display it was watching.

“Prisoner 64280563B, Kieval An Asley Di Gahani, is scheduled for Sire 5,” it intoned in the same dispassionate voice. “A nutrient bath and cleansing has been prepared.”

Maybe it was hearing his new appellation, which only drove home the point that, should he survive the next few months, a high improbability, he would then belong to his enemy for the rest of his life, which, considering the current capability of medical care for nobles, could be a hundred years or more, to do whatever he wanted with, so long as it didn’t cause disfigurement or death. Or maybe it was just the bloodshed and injuries. In either case, Key suddenly found himself sitting on the ground, with no idea how he got there, the world swirling around him dizzily.

“Lie down, Key.” A strong hand pushed him backward insistently, and the rebel was unable to fight it, feeling weak as a newborn moser-cat as he was pressed down to lie on his back. Gahani’s face swirled in out of the mixture for a moment, looking faintly concerned.

“Get these off of him,” the man’s voice ordered, waving in and out of Key’s hearing.

“My Lord…”

“He isn’t even able to sit up, he isn’t going to go anywhere. Where is that grav-bed?” Key waved his suddenly free hands, trying to roll over and push himself up.

“No,” Gahani insisted, holding him in place. “I am not going to let you escape me before you even get to the Sire.”

Then he was being lifted, something injected into his arm, and everything went soft and hazy.

******

“How is he?” Mikhail watched the man sleeping quietly in the nutrient bath. It was really more of a tank than a bath, a long glass cylinder just big enough for a tall man to lie comfortably in. The clear pinkish liquid swirled softly as its occupant moved slightly, the mouth opening to either breathe or drink in the substance; it was all the same, really.

“He’s severely malnourished,” the doctor who appeared at his side stated, leaning forward to read one of the monitors. “We’ve added an extra caloric value to the mixture to help him recover some of his BMI, as well as a higher dose of antibiotics and healing factors to help with his recent injuries.” The captive had been cleaned up, prior to his bath, and Mikhail could see the extent of the injuries, now, a long shallow slice across his lower back, the short, but deep cut just in his hairline where someone had hit him with something, it, and the slice across his cheek both carefully closed with medical sealant, to minimise scarring. A huge bruise covered the side of his upper right arm, not to mention the myriad other ones. Key had not gone down easily, that was for certain.

But he _had_ gone down, and now he was Mikhail’s, for however long he lived. Kieval An Asley Di Gahani. It flowed perfectly.

“He will recover, though?” No harm in being certain.

“Oh, yes. He’s strong, and absorbing the nutrients well. He should be well within the tolerance for the Sire within another two days. He will be cleaned out within that time, as well, so we can move him right in to the Sire’s habitat without having to wake him to do a cleansing. It’s easier on them that way, actually, I don’t know why it isn’t done more often.”

“It would boost the success rate?” the brunet asked curiously.

“According to my research, subjects who are allowed to awaken slowly in the nutrient bath and are taken straight to the habitat before they are fully aware exhibit less beginning stress than those who are awakened for a cleansing, or who never go into the nutrient bath, which leads to a higher acceptance rate and better adjustment.” Mikhail considered. Nutrient baths were expensive, but so was the effort put into each potential Breeder, both in the loss of the time and the spawn. If the man’s theory was sound, and it could boost the number of successful breedings… A Breeder could Clutch a maximum of once a year, safely, and Bondholders only had to submit their Breeders once every five years, by law. Most did it as seldom as possible, since, while the mortality rate of a repeat Breeder wasn’t as high as the potentials, there was always, still, that possibility. One of 8’s lost Breeders had been on his fourth Clutch.

“Take the next twenty potentials and try out your theory on them. I want regular reports. And I want him,” he nodded toward Key’s bath, “fully healthy before he goes into the habitat. Take more than the two days, if you need to. I am not going to lose him through something as simple as a little infection or starvation.”

“Yes, My Lord, thank you. I will make certain of his health personally before his transfer.” Mikhail dismissed the doctor then, continuing to watch his new Breeder. Now that he was cleaned up, the man’s beauty could be seen, the well-muscled physique, tanned by days spent out in the wasteland, his red-gold hair turned to a true blond under the hot sun. His oval face still had a boyish look, clean-shaven and relaxed in sleep, his lips just a bit too wide by current standards, but not nearly enough to ruin the visage, especially when they were quirked into a cocky smile. He’d be a bit softer, once he became a Breeder, the extra hormones making his form a bit more androgynous, but that wouldn’t hurt his looks at all, and the process would only make the green tone of his eyes, already a rare shade, even clearer, turning them to a bright jade, or, perhaps, even a clear emerald. Emerald eyes were the most sought-after for a Breeder. Not that Mikhail had any intention of transferring Key’s Bond, of course, but if he could get him properly trained, it might be worth entering him in a few shows.

But that was a concern for another time. For the moment, he had other places to be, like letting his wife know he had succeeded, more or less, in saving her former fiancé’s life.

******

Everything was strange and floaty. The captive kicked out, his feet moving slowly through the viscous fluid he was in, making him bump into something solid and clear. Through the fluid he could see somebody, a man, looking in at him. The captive blinked slowly at him, and the man moved away, gesturing to someone else.

Then there were more men around him, all wearing white coats, and the fluid was moving, with him in it. Part of him thought this should be alarming, but he couldn’t bring himself to be too worried about it.

They moved for a while, while the floaty feeling faded slowly. Still, he was still only half-aware when the liquid suddenly drained out of the tank, leaving him feeling heavy and confused. He coughed up a lungful of the fluid, breathing in clear air, his body rebelling against it for a second before it remembered that this was its natural state. Warm water suddenly rained down, and he turned his head away, coughing again, while it rinsed away the last of the fluid, leaving him wet and clean.

He was still recovering from the weight change when something reached in, curling around him and lifting him out of the tube. He flailed weakly as the thing moved him about, others joining it. Tentacles, he thought, finally starting to become lucid.

Sire 5… Breeder…

Key jerked, struggling in the creature’s hold, but the tentacles wrapped securely around his arms and legs, holding him firmly, and he couldn’t get any traction against them.

“Relax, Key. It will be easier.” Gahani’s voice echoed over the speakers into the habitat, and the prisoner did pause to look around for the other man, spotting him watching through a viewing window.

“Gaha-” The growl was cut off as a tentacle suddenly shoved its way past his lips. It wriggled there a moment as he tried to pull away, but then suddenly dove deeper, ignoring the way he gagged around it as it worked its way down his throat. Biting it did no good, either; hard scales protected it from his teeth, and the damage he did do brought a bitter liquid to the surface.

For a long few minutes he couldn’t breathe, until another tentacle squirmed in as well, diving down his throat alongside the other, and evidently inserting itself into his lungs, since oxygen was suddenly flowing in again. His throat tried to repel the invaders once more, before finally giving in and reluctantly accepting the intrusion.

Key could feel a warmth in his stomach, then, as a liquid was slowly pumped in, meant to both provide him with nutrients to keep him alive and a mild paralytic sedative, to help keep him more manageable. He could feel it working, his limbs growing heavy and hard to move, as the tentacles coiled protectively around him.

He knew the theory behind the Sires, though he had never seen them before. The creatures came from a tropical world that was mostly swamps, and they couldn’t reproduce themselves, so they used captured prey to do so instead, drugging the male victims, and then changing them into Breeders, essentially forcing the body to create a womb inside where it would then mix its own seed and the victim’s, creating hybrid eggs. Nobody knew why the creatures only took male hosts, though a few theories had been thrown around, from them needing the higher male hormones, to a population control theory; loss of males would not effect a population so badly as a loss of females would.

Whatever the reason, the eggs that survived the host’s natural defenses (the planets’ native animals had developed strong enough systems that only two or three eggs in a clutch survived; human clutches had much higher survival rates) would grow, attached to the womb wall and feeding off their ‘mother’, while the Breeder was in turned cared for and kept alive by the Sire, until they were eventually ready to hatch, at which time they would travel back down the Breeder’s breeding passage and be laid in a prepared nest. The disabled victim would usually be abandoned for a day or so while the Sire fawned over its new brood, until they finished hatching, and then, if the Breeder didn’t escape, the process would begin anew, continuing over and over until the Breeder was killed by the pressures of supporting the growing creatures.

Originally, the hybrids came out like their sire, and would swim off to hunt and grow and, eventually, claim their own victim to reproduce. Humans, however, seemed to effect the offspring in their own fashion, and they, more often than not, came out in one of the other hybrid forms. It was where the Jail-Masters came from, as well as the Miners, the Cleaners, and all the other strange servants that were employed for various tasks that humans found distasteful.

So the Sires were relocated to these habitats, where they could be monitored constantly, their victims reclaimed the moment they were discarded. A healthy male could generally support a single Clutch and come out not too much the worse for wear at the end of it, as long as they had plenty of time to regain their strength before they had to do it again. Two Clutches could occasionally be done, if the Sire refused to abandon the Breeder long enough for retrieval, but no one had survived three, thus far.

Another tentacle reached out from the creature, which Key would have thought looked sort like an octopus with twice as many limbs, had he ever seen an octopus, prodding at his lower half, finally finding the right spot and pushing up into him, the creature’s slime coating easing its path. It was still uncomfortable, to say the least, and Key garbled around his mouthful, struggling again. The tentacles only coiled around him tighter, pulling his arms in close to his body and his legs up and apart, so that he was in an inverted kneeling position, his genitals on full display. And the creature took advantage of that, another hollow tentacle sliding down over his shaft, working its way down the length and even widening to swallow his sack. And that was what it seemed like it was doing, contractions running from the tip back towards the creature’s body, as if it was trying to milk him.

The tentacle up his ass pressed up against something inside and the irritation turned into sudden pleasure. Key gasped as the limb squirmed within him, each brush against that spot making him stiffen further, the one milking his cock only helping the sensation. The Sire was experienced, it knew the best ways now to settle its victim down, and Key didn’t take long to climax, going still in the afterglow, helped along by the paralytic.

The tentacles binding him loosened their hold, only gripping him in place now as others moved over him, sliding, stroking, testing his muscle tone and health. The feeling was strangely soothing.

Which made what came next even worse, as a smaller tentacle pushed its way in alongside the other up his ass, going in only a few inches before it suddenly _bit_ into him, digging through the front of the anal wall, just above the prostate, burrowing in through muscle and nudging intestine up out of the way. Key howled at the pain as everything within him was adjusted to make room for the new organ, struggling weakly, the paralytic not quite enough to counteract the adrenaline now flooding his system, but enough to slow him down, to make him feel like he was swimming in syrup. The arms held him easily in place, and he was forced to stillness again after a few more minutes, though the pain didn’t lessen at all, the helplessness and pain and humiliation of the situation causing tears of misery to seep from the green eyes despite his best efforts.

Over the next week, the creature slowly built the new organ into him, using its own fast-growing cells to create the tissue and blood vessels and muscles of the womb and breeding tube, integrating his own in so that his body wouldn’t reject it, and would continue to hold the shape afterwards. It was this feature that would allow him to carry human children later, the same as a woman, though his body wouldn’t be able to deliver them naturally, requiring surgical removal.

And slowly the pain faded as his body adjusted to the intrusions, retreating to a dull ache, punctuated by brief periods of unconsciousness and others of unwanted arousal as he was stroked and sucked and teased to orgasm. And even that eventually faded, as they entered week two.

And then came the day, (morning? Night? He had no clue in the artificial lighting,) when the creature really began to torment him. Repeatedly he was forced to come, until it started to hurt to do so, until he had evidently been sucked dry. He was turned over and repositioned so that his head pointed down, and the two tentacles in his ass pulled out, another taking their place, pushing up into the breeding passage. Key would swear he could feel the eggs being transplanted into him, though he knew, at this point, that they were too small to do so. The tentacle pulled back and the one that had been attached to his cock pressed in, and the blond really could feel it, now, as all the sperm collected from him in the past week, carefully kept alive and safe in some special pouch or something, was gushed back up into him, flooding the womb and the tunnel, until it even leaked out of his weakened hole. The tentacle pulled back again, then, until it was sitting just inside his entrance, the tip suddenly billowing out to plug him up, pressing lightly against his prostate. He moved in the creature’s grip, and the tentacle shifted a bit, rubbing over the gland, sparking a reaction. Key fell still again; he was not going to willingly assist in his own rape. The creature didn’t seem to care, just pulling him in close to its body, cradling him gently. One of the holding tentacles shifted to curl around his shaft and balls, holding them still even as Key protested it with a few weak kicks, while a slender one nosed at the very tip of the length, diving in suddenly. The prisoner probably would have squealed at the sudden intrusion, had he had the ability to do so, but as it was, he remained silent as the make-shift catheter slid down his shaft. It was too big to fit easily, pressing against his urethra walls as it wriggled its way in, and the feeling was shockingly arousing. His body didn’t have anything more to give at the moment, but it was trying its best, his cock twitching and stiffening to half-mast, before the tentacle finally fell still, somewhere deep inside him.

The holding tentacles resumed their stroking and petting, and, exhausted from the ordeal and feeling soothed by the gentle touches, Key collapsed into sleep.

******

“How is he?”

Mikhail looked up from the reports crowding his desk, offering one of his very rare smiles to the dark-haired woman who stood in the doorway of his office, her belly swollen with pregnancy. She looked even more beautiful to him like that, though. Her thick wavy hair was pulled back in a simple clip today, and she’d applied only a light touch of make-up. The only thing that ruined the picture was the worry in her dark eyes, and the source for it.

Tarina was his, the Lord reminded himself firmly, and she did care for him, even if it wasn’t the depth of feeling that she held for the other man. That didn’t matter, she was his, she carried his child; he had won that battle.

And Key was his, as well, to do with whatever he wished, if he survived. You could be severely punished for maiming or neglecting a Breeder, but, generally, anything else he wished to do to the blond was within his right. Breeders were, after all, still criminals. He could beat him black and blue, if the mood took him, or invite his friends in to rape him until he was senseless with it, and after, even. He could make Key’s life a living hell, if he wanted to. Or he could ruin him with tender touches and gentleness; cause him to become completely dependant on his captor, not just through the Bond.

“He came through the orientation as well as could be expected,” Mikhail answered, mentally setting that choice aside, for now, picking up a report that sat apart. Though others used the pads to do their work on, Mikhail preferred paper. There was something settling about having the pages set out in their assigned places, so that he could see at a glance exactly what needed to be done and what could wait; you didn’t get the same easy display on a pad. “He was sleeping when they sent the report, he probably won’t wake up for a day or so, at least, but they’ve already turned the viewer on for him.” Breeding was intensely boring, and the monotony could often cause depression and passive suicide in the Breeders, where they just lost the will to live. Having something to watch didn’t always combat that, but it did help, and it was the best they could offer, so each habitat had been fitted with a large viewer screen and sound system, which would play on and off at a set schedule for the three month gestational period. The Sires had, fortunately, been largely uninterested in the set-up, so long as nothing actually approached them or their captives, so it worked out well.

“They haven’t set him up on the general programming, have they? Mikhail, if Key sees anything about the rebellion, it’s going to upset him.” She knew all about the cleaning any news reports went through before they were aired, the stories skewed to put the king’s government in the best light.

And she wasn’t wrong. Though the only news about it airing today was a raid on an outpost that had ended up being mostly emptied of supplies and already abandoned, future reports could indeed cause the rebel to become upset, if anybody he knew was killed or captured. And a working Breeder couldn’t afford that sort of distress, especially not a first-timer.

“I didn’t think about that,” he admitted. “I have to go down to the centre this afternoon to check on the newest Clutches, I’ll get him set up on a personalised feed. I assume you have suggestions?” Of course she would. Key and Tarina had been all but betrothed before the old King had been assassinated. The cover-up had implicated a couple of Key’s close friends, and the young Lord had turned rogue to protect them, abandoning his young love to the non-existent mercy of the new court.

And she still loved him more…

Tarina was his, Key was his, he reminded himself. Still, he’d make sure to look in on his Breeder, just for a visual reminder.


	2. Chapter 2

The days passed by slowly, the only way to tell the passing of time the shows of the viewer; He had caught one news report, right upon waking the first time after his impregnation, and then the programming had changed, reruns of old shows he had liked, interspersed with some new ones in the same genres. They were all played in order, but the arrangement was random; they might play two episodes of one series, and then not another for a couple days, or one at the same time (he thought) every day for a week.

At first, he moved as much as he was able to, the inactivity feeling unnerving to someone used to constantly being on the move. As the days flowed into weeks, and then months, though, his belly growing more and more swollen, he stayed still more often, spent less time awake and more asleep, as the growing brood within him placed more and more intense demands on his body, until, even when he was awake, he couldn’t really focus on anything.

He was dying, he thought, at one point, catching a glimpse of Gahani frowning at him through the viewing window. The man had been in at least once a week, more often, maybe, though the prisoner honestly wasn’t sure anymore, his expression possessive and triumphant. This time, though, it looked faintly concerned, and he turned away to speak to someone.

He was dying, and the hero on-screen (he couldn’t remember his name) cried out as the bad guy ran him through with a sword. The hero would survive, though, Key reflected; he had seen this show before, once, sometime when he was younger, and Tarina loved him, and they were going to be married, and Mikhail was just the son of a disgraced Lord, taken in and made one of his father’s pages.

Now Gahani was the Lord, and Tarina was his wife, and Key was the disgraced rebel. And he was dying. Silently, he closed his eyes.

“Giving up already, Kieval?” The voice came over the sound system, and the creature responded to it, jostling him slightly. Key tried to ignore the arrogant tone. “I’m not surprised. I told Tarina it was a waste of time, and that a spoiled Lordling like you would be too weak to survive.”

Key’s eyes opened at the barb, and he jerked in the Sire’s grip, the first movement he had made in a week. How dare the man… He would show him a spoiled Lordling, when he got out of here.

“That’s better. You’ve less than a week to go; it would be a disappointment if we lost the Clutch this late because you couldn’t manage to ride it out.”

The taunts drew up some last traces of strength from deep within the beleaguered captive, carrying him through the next couple of days, until suddenly, something in his stomach contracted painfully. The tentacle in his ass started to wriggle around, and then deflated, sliding out from where it had dealt with his defecations for three months, and his position was shifted, so that he was kneeling over an already built nesting hole in the ground, the tentacles down his throat pulling out as well, leaving him trying to breath on his own for the first time in three months. He got the hang of it, just in time for the next contraction, uttering a pained moan as they continued. Slowly, one after the other, eggs came rolling out of him, dropping down into the nest, coated in a slippery goo. Half a dozen came out without too much trouble, and then the next, larger than the others, became stuck, only moving down the Breeding tunnel inch by slow, painful inch. Finally, though, it dropped out, feeling like it was tearing him open as it did so.

More eggs followed, a couple dozen, at least; a Clutch could hold up to forty eggs, though thirty was generally the average. Then, just when he thought he couldn’t continue on any longer, another large one pushed its way down. His passage was stretched enough that this one made it through without actually sticking, but it hurt even more than the first had.

He was laid aside, on the ground, left there while the Sire checked over the eggs, turning them carefully, ensuring that each was healthy. There was no danger of him trying to escape; even without the paralytic, he wouldn’t have been able to move more than a baby finger. The contractions continued, spewing birthing fluids and failed eggs out onto the ground, before finally slowing to a stop. 

He didn’t even open his eyes when he felt something pick him up, only whining softly, expecting the tubes to return to torment him again. Instead, he was lifted onto a smooth soft surface, something laid over him as he was moved into a cooler area.

“34 eggs,” he heard somebody say, faintly, the words not making any real sense. “And _two_ Sire eggs. Nobody has ever managed _two_. And on a first Clutch, too. Your Breeder is exceptional.”

“Key always did like to show off. Just ensure he survives this display.” The voices faded away as he slipped back into sleep.

******

Mikhail supervised as his new Breeder was laid out in a shallow tub of warm water and carefully cleaned of the birthing fluids and three months accumulation of dirt. The Sire kept its Breeder healthy, and more or less clean, but only as it related to providing for its children.

The rough mess of beard that he had grown was shaved off carefully as well, Breeding slowed the growth of body hair, a trait that would continue until the Breeder hormones worked their way out of the system, a process that usually took a couple years, at least, due to the integrated tissue, but it didn’t stop it completely. Most Breeders were lasered to remove their body-hair permanently. 

He was then held up out of the water while the mass of tangled curls that his hair had become was washed and combed out. It would have been faster and easier to have just shaved his head as well, but Mikhail disliked the thought of having to wait for it to grow back in, and accelerating hairgrowth was expensive, and a little dangerous.

After that, the blond was settled back into a nutrient bath. And he needed it. The slender frame was skin and bones, cheeks sunken in, and he was as pale as a ghost, except for the dark marks staining the skin under his eyes. As the head doctor had said, nobody had ever survived two Sire eggs before, and there was a good reason for that. They were bigger, and took a lot more out of the dam. Kieval was on the verge of death, might still cross over, if his body didn’t accept the nutrients and calories in the bath fast enough.

Mikhail was sure it was only stubborn arrogance that had kept him going this past week. If he hadn’t chosen to visit the man that afternoon, hadn’t seen him close his eyes and _known_ it would be the last time, his prisoner would have died then.

But he was alive, still, and, in a few days, maybe a week, after he had recovered enough, he would be sent home with Mikhail, to be coddled and fussed over by Tarina and her maids, most likely.

The display on the side of the tank chirped once, and Mikhail glanced at it, reading the numbers, noting that the heart rate had gone up slightly. He looked back at the Breeder, and was surprised, and pleased, to see dull green eyes looking back at him. He tapped lightly on the glass with the back of one finger, and Key turned his head away, closing his eyes again. Mikhail felt relieved, certain, now, that his newest possession would survive.

******

“They’re late.” Tarina frowned at the timepiece on the sitting-room’s display again, for the second time in as many minutes. “I hope something hasn’t happened.”

“I’m sure they are fine,” answered her favourite maid, Jariq, who was fast being moved into the position of baby Pierre’s nurse. The four-week-old boy was sleeping, at the moment, and the copper-skinned woman was working on some knitting project. She always had something going. “If Breeder Kieval came out of the habitat as worn down as my cousin was, he will not be moving fast, even after five days in a tank.” Unlike her thief cousin, Jariq’s only crime was being born to a mother who wore the grey of enforced servitude. In this world, though, that was enough, and she too had worn the grey, until she bought her freedom. She still worked for them, but now it was as a freewoman. She openly took advantage of the new luxuries that came with the new position, often sporting bright colours like the pink and white flower-print sundress she currently wore.

“Key nearly died,” the Lady stated, looking back out the large bay window she was seated in. It was the first time she had said it out loud, and she felt an icy thrill of fear go up her spine. “Mikhail said he would have, if he hadn’t managed to goad the last bit of strength out of him.”

“Then Breeder Kieval is lucky that my Lord chose to take his Bond.” Tarina laughed softly. Key wouldn’t see it so, she knew. The Bond was an odd side-effect of Breeding, the Breeder developing a physical and mental dependency on another male human. No one quite knew why, only that Breeders who were denied or who lost their Bond wasted away soon after. Some suspected it had something to do with the hive-mind most of the offspring types shared with their brethren, like the Jail-Masters’ Mind-Bond. In any case, without a willing Bonder, a potential Breeder would die soon after they were released from the creature, no matter how intensive the after-care was. Luckily, Breeders were always in demand, even the ones who weren’t as good-looking as her Key. _Mikhail’s_ Key, now, technically.

Ten minutes later, the hovercar finally pulled up in front of the building, and the driver moved around to pull a support-chair from the back seat, setting it up as Tarina hurried over to open the front door. The chair would provide transport while the Breeder’s legs recuperated from three months of inactivity. The nutrient bath could provide the building blocks to rebuild muscle, but it couldn’t actually grow them.

“I don’t need your help.” The voice was still familiar, even if it was roughened from disuse and older than the last time she had heard it. Mikhail stepped from the car, his face clearly showing his irritation as the slightly shorter male climbed out after him, clinging to the car door and seemingly barely able to stand. Key scowled at the support-chair, but reluctantly sat down in it, reaching for the touchpad.

“No, Key. We had this discussion.” Mikhail took the handles of the chair firmly, automatically disabling the other controls, and guided the hovering conveyance up the steps and into the house. The new Breeder looked furious, and Tarina sighed inwardly. She had hoped for a happy homecoming, but she should have known better. Mikhail and Kieval had always been in a constant battle for supremacy; Key was a Lord’s heir, and couldn’t be shown up by a simple dishonoured _orphan_ , while Mikhail wouldn’t stand for a boy three years his junior to be above him in anything.

The old Lord of Asley hadn’t done anything to dissuade the rivalry, either, instead encouraging it, believing that competition was healthy for young boys, and that they would grow out of it.

Obviously, that had yet to happen.

Key’s expression changed the moment he saw her, though, the irritation smoothing away into affection, and a faint tint of regret. Tarina studied him, noting the differences since she had last seen him; she had gone to visit him in the habitat only once, early on, and hadn’t been able to force herself to return. His skin was paler now, from the lack of natural light and stress of his exertion, hair freshly trimmed and styled, the bleached waves having been expertly re-coloured back to their original red-gold hue to match the unaltered roots, settling on his shoulders and curling around a face that was a touch too slender still. The strain of his harsh living and more recent ordeal showed in the faint lines around his emerald eyes and mouth.

“Tarina,” he breathed, then his familiar roguish grin took its place, and he looked exactly the same as when they were younger, suddenly. “Come sit on my lap?” Mikhail huffed in irritation, and Tarina rolled her eyes, not bothering to repress an answering smile.

“I don’t think your doctor would approve,” she responded.

“You can lay with me on my sickbed, then. Apparently recovering from inactivity doesn’t actually mean doing anything to recover…”

“The bath has you feeling good now,” Mikhail interrupted, with the tone of someone who had repeated it before. “Within an hour, you won’t be able to keep your eyes open, let alone stand.”

“Watch me,” the blond growled in reply.

Tarina bent to kiss her former fiancé lightly on the cheek, pulling back as he tried for her lips, moving then to kiss her husband properly. Best to get the situation straight right from the start.

As she had expected, Key had clearly lost his playful tone when she pulled back. The Breeder was scowling at the wall, but she was sure it wasn’t the blue-sheen coating that he was opposed to.

“Two Sire eggs. And emerald eyes. It was all over the Network this morning,” Jariq commented idly, seemingly engrossed in her needlework. The Network had originally been an inter-House system intended for important notifications and communications. It had quickly become the best place to gather gossip, or find anything else you might want. Each city now had a huge database that could be accessed by anyone with a pad, and numerous separate smaller databases operated for clients-only, as well as a few private operators. “You’re the newest celebrity.” She looked up and Key glanced over at her, looking even more sour.

“Because I was drugged up, dropped in an alien’s cage and forced to allow it to turn me into a freak and stuff me full of eggs, which also changed my eye colour? I’d prefer to be known for something else, thank you.” Not that he wasn’t, Tarina mused. His name and face might not have been known by the general public, but his exploits with the rebels were infamous. 

“I’d be just as pleased if I lost the Clutch and turned Black.” Lost Clutches were rare, but they did happen, occasionally, though no one knew why. They were considered a black mark against a Breeder, like they hadn’t tried hard enough or something. Black eyes were also undesirable. They were as rare as good Emeralds, but were often said to give the Breeder a dead-eyed look.

The noblewoman sighed. She had hoped Key would take some pride in the accomplishment, and he probably did, inside, but he was apparently not in the mood to admit it.

“I’ve had ten offers for him already,” Mikhail mentioned, reaching out to run a lock of the red-gold hair through his fingers. Kieval shifted his head away from the touch, his hands clenching on the arm rests. “Good ones. And they weren’t even aware of his eyes, yet. That only slipped when he was taken out of the bath this morning. I imagine I’ll be fielding requests for the next month, at least.”

“I’ll leave a few comments on the Network that we’re not interested in selling,” Tarina decided. It wouldn’t stop the requests completely, but it might slow them a bit, and would make the declines a bit less insulting.

“I’m so glad I have such a say in my own life,” the former rebel huffed sulkily. “You might as well put a collar on me and call me a dog.”

“Collars _are_ in fashion for Breeders at the moment,” Mikhail answered, his tone obviously smug. “It would be a shame for the newest celebrity not to follow fashion.” Tarina gave him an irritated look, but he ignored it. Her husband, she decided, was having a bit too much fun with this. It was his prerogative, though, now, so she stayed silent.

“Don’t you dare,” Key hissed, starting to rise to fight or escape; they didn’t find out which, because he just as suddenly slumped back, face drawn with sudden exhaustion.

“I told you it would fade,” Mikhail stated, moving around the chair, going to pick up a long jewellery box off a coffee-table, too wide to be for a lady’s necklace. “Though, I suppose it makes this easier.”

“Mikhail, maybe we should wait until he’s had some time to settle in…” Tarina began, noting the sheen of sweat across the blond’s face as he scowled at her husband. He looked far too pale, now, struggling even to stay awake.

“If we wait, he’ll just be stronger and it will be more of a fight.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, Key,” she tried, instead. “Even some of the Ladies have started wearing them lately. You’d look more out of place without one.”

“I’m not wearing a collar like some sort of pet,” the blond hissed.

“Pet…” the older man repeated as he lifted the collar out of the box. “That would make an apt title.” Key was lying back now, whatever energy he had had now expended, it seemed, but he made a face at the suggestion.

The collar was fairly simple, a long strip of material that looked like black leather, but which was far more durable, braided in a flat 5 strand braid, and looped back on itself on one end, an inch wide silver bar clamped down to hold it. A silver ring ran through the loop, Gahani’s snarling black stal-cat head hanging from it. Mikhail moved over and slid the collar around the Breeder’s neck, easily evading his attempts to force it away, slipping the other side of the band through the ring and positioning it the same as the other side. Another silver bar locked that end in places as well.

Key reached up weakly and grabbed at the ring, tugging fruitlessly. The collar was DNA-locked, only Mikhail or Tarina would be able to open it, and thin metal filaments ran through each strand of the braid, connecting to circuitry in the bars now that it was closed. They would activate an alarm if it was cut, and could also deliver a punishing shock, if needed.

The pendant was more than just pretty, as well. No bigger than a large dog tag, it contained a small tracker that would allow them to find the Breeder, should he attempt an escape or get lost, as well as a bio chip that provided access to his information, and which could activate or deactivate doors and other systems. They were quite popular for young children and pets, since they made it unnecessary to lock or add extra hardware to doors or other areas the wearer shouldn’t be allowed to access.

“I’d like to go lie down,” the blond stated then, his rough voice despondent. He didn’t protest when Mikhail moved the chair toward the hall that would lead to the lift to the upper floors. Tarina looked away, not wanting to meet the jewelled eyes and their, to her, faintly lifeless gaze.

“That could have gone worse…” Jariq offered, when they were out of sight. Tarina looked over at her.

“Could it?” she asked, after a moment. “I know it all had to be done, but I feel horrible about it.”

“A family my mother worked for had a Breeder commit suicide when he found out who he had been bonded to, so, yes, it could have.” The Lady shivered at that idea. At least she could be sure Key wouldn’t do that. He was too proud and stubborn to take such a coward’s way out.

******

“This will be your room, for now.”

“For now?” Key repeated, looking around the large space. It was better than he had expected, though it looked like a Lady’s room. The walls were a soft lavender, a slightly darker tone swirling absently across the surface, and the furniture was light and feminine, all made of a pale wood, polished to a soft shine. There were two recliner chairs, covered in white fabric, a throw pillow in violet and light blue waves sat up against one armrest in each, arranged to face the viewer on the near wall. A round table sat between the two chairs, high enough to match the armrests. It held a gooseneck lamp with two necks and an expensive-looking crystal and ebony Warlords set on a board checked in pale and dark woods.

Two wide bookshelves sat against the right wall, close to the inside, bracketing a single doorway, the sliding panel open to reveal the cream and white bathroom beyond. The doorway to a walk-in closet was also open to show the space behind it and a glimpse of neatly hung brightly coloured clothing.

Along the far wall was a dressing table, near the closet, complete with mirror and white-cushioned chair, right next to the bay window that took up a good portion of the wall, a seat built into it, padded with, violet cushions and a couple more of the throw pillows. White sheers hung closed over it, at the moment, the heavier dark blue curtains tied back to let in the afternoon light.

And taking up the space on the other side of the window, in the corner, with the headboard against the outside wall, was a queen-size bed, the bedding violet-accented cream.

“I would rather have you on cushions on the floor in my room, like a proper Breeder,” that was more along with the rebel’s expectations, though he had actually envisioned a cage in the closet, “but Tarina insisted you have your own space while you’re settling in. She wanted to stay close to Pierre, anyway.” That meant this was her room.

“How generous of her,” he muttered darkly, not inclined to feel grateful at the backhanded, and likely temporary, gift. Mikhail cuffed him casually across the back of the head for the remark, and the blond flinched. The blow hadn’t been anywhere near the man’s full force, and it had still stung. It was depressing, to say the least.

"You had better start minding your manners, or you’ll find yourself kennelled out back with the dogs.” The rebel managed not to shudder, but it was a close thing. They were probably just racing dogs, or hunting dogs trained to go after the horned deer and other food prey, but the thought of any dog bigger than a moser-cat scared him. It hadn’t always been that way; he had had his own finely-trained hounds when he was younger. Too many close calls, though. Some of his scars had been caused by guard dogs and dogs trained to hunt more intelligent sport. The fear had become an instinctive reaction.

The older man reached to help him up out of the chair then, and Key jerked away from him.

“I told you not to touch me,” he hissed, referring to the comment he had made when getting out of the car earlier. He hated the feeling, the way a traitorous part of him seemed to thrill at the contact. No better was the way he had started to _like_ the other’s cafe-like smell, strong, bitter and dark. It must have been some sort of personalized cologne or something.

The brunet’s face darkened and he jerked the blond up by his arm, pushing him into a controlled fall face-first onto the bed.

“I will touch you whenever and however I wish,” he snarled, hand sliding under the shirt his captive wore in a light caress, his other still firm around Key’s bicep. “I _own_ you, Asley.” Key swung his free arm back in an attempt to strike a hit. It achieved a partial result, at least, since Mikhail stopped his petting to capture the attacking arm.

“A pity your new toys are in my room,” he said menacingly, drawing both the prisoner’s wrists behind his back, holding them there with one hand, as easily as he would a child’s. Key was completely exhausted and could only manage a few light tugs.

“Feel free to leave them there,” he hissed, shivering as the hand resumed its light wandering. It wasn’t that the touch was painful or anything. It was actually quite soothing, the soft caress relaxing him so that he was half-asleep before he knew it.

“I can’t wait until you’ve recovered enough for me to take you properly,” Mikhail murmured, and Key jerked, forcing himself awake again. He was _not_ going to be petted to sleep by his enemy.

“I could now, of course,” the man continued. “But it would be too risky. You can’t spare the resources to fight an infection.” There were complications to having your ass repurposed as a makeshift vagina, the main one being the danger of cross-contamination. And, after three months of being forced open, the muscles back there were far too lax to do their job properly, either, necessitating the use of the small Breeder plug he wore and already hated. They would have recovered, of course, in time, but he would have gone through the same problem five years down the road anyway. The surgery that would be scheduled for him as soon as he was recovered enough would fix both issues, retooling the Sire’s work so that the rectum ran into the breeding passage, rather than the other way around. He would still need to flush himself out with a cleansing solution after bowel movements, but Breeder-accessible washrooms were set up to make that easy, by law. “I think you’re a little too worn down to enjoy it right now anyway.”

“I don’t plan on enjoying anything you do to me,” the blond drawled sleepily. The brunet huffed a laugh.

“It’s a good thing your plans aren’t being taken into account, then. You’ll enjoy everything I give you. I’ll even make you beg for it.”

“Never,” the captive hissed, right on the verge of sleep. Mikhail just laughed again, and, in a moment more, Key was asleep.


End file.
